surprised to find himself a bit reluctant. In the three days they had been on the road, he had grown used to the small scrap: her scrunched-up face, her waving arms, the astonishing volume of her screams when Mace slowed his horse. Even changing nappies had not been so terrible as he had imagined.
“Come in, lad, come in,” Barty told him. “You’re wet through.”
Mace went inside, dropped his saddlebags, and pulled off his sopping cloak, hanging it on one of the pegs near the door.
“Barty?”
A woman had appeared in the hall. She was tall and forbidding, this woman, with hawklike eyes and whitening hair. Mace did not know her by sight, only by reputation, but all the same, he thought he could have picked her out of a crowd in the New London Circus: Lady Glynn, the tutor, who had brought fear to the entire Queen’s Wing in her day, who had lost her title when she redistributed her lands. Lady Glynn, whom everyone had believed dead.
“Will you join us for breakfast, lad?” Barty asked.
From the corner of his eye, Mace saw the old lady’s mouth pinch; she did not like him. Most people did not . . . and they would not, Mace thought. Those who had accepted him—Carroll, Niya, Arliss—were the exceptions, and there would not be many of them. Perhaps it was better so.
“No,” he replied. “But I could use some food for the journey back.”
“Help yourself, lad. Kitchen’s through there.”
But Barty did not look at Mace as he spoke; all of his attention was riveted on the baby. He was taken with her, Mace thought, and he made a mental note to tell Carroll when he got back to the Keep. Carroll had grown attached to the girl, and it would ease his mind to know that Barty cared as well. Niya, too, would want to know—but Mace closed his eyes, putting that thought away. Early yesterday morning, he had thought he heard Niya’s voice, but the sound had vanished abruptly when the baby began to howl for her morning bottle. Mace told himself that it had only been a dream, but the idea did not rest easy in his mind.
“Bring that child in here, Barty,” Lady Glynn ordered. “Before she catches her death of cold.”
They took the baby into the living room, and Mace went on to the kitchen.
* * *
He was pulling meat and cheese from the icebox when the sapphire at his chest began to burn. Mace had forgotten all about it; if the jewel had not spoken up, he likely would have gotten all the way back to New London with the damned thing still dangling beneath his shirt.
Setting the food on top of his saddlebags, Mace pulled the necklace off and took it into the living room, a small, comfortable area in which every available surface appeared to be covered with books: books stacked neatly in piles on the floor, books lying on tables, even a few stacks balanced precariously on the arms of the sofa. Mace noted the books without judgment; such things were not for him, never would be, but perhaps they would serve someone else.
“Here,” he said, holding out the sapphire to Barty.
“The Queen’s Jewel?” Barty asked, raising his eyebrows. “I saw the other one; it’s hers by right. But where did you get that?”
“Couldn’t begin to tell you.” Mace held it out, dangling it above them, and it was Lady Glynn who finally took it.
“It’s for the baby. When she’s old enough.”
Lady Glynn nodded, tucking the jewel away in her pocket.
“Well, goodbye,” Mace said awkwardly. “Perhaps we’ll see each other again.”
“Nineteen years,” Barty replied, chortling. “When you’re sprouting grey hair, and all your muscle fallen into flab.”
“Fuck off, Barty.”
“Watch your mouth!” Lady Glynn hissed. “She will hear you! Even a baby can learn.”
Barty sobered, looking abashed, and Mace backed away, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“Goodbye, Barty,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Same to you, lad,” Barty replied, and this time Mace was sure of it: tears in the old man’s eyes as he looked down at the girl. “This is a gift beyond price.”
With a nod to the terrifying Lady Glynn, Mace retreated into the hallway, packed and fastened his saddlebags, and then donned his cloak and gloves. Half of his mind was listening to the murmured conversation from the living room, but the other half was miles away: in New London, in the Keep. We got topside, Maura had told him, and Christian had not